


11:55 MDT

by cualacino



Category: Breaking Bad, Supernatural
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Work, Sex Worker Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6602377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cualacino/pseuds/cualacino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean needs some cash, Jesse needs a distraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	11:55 MDT

Jesse finds himself driving some nights – he doesn’t remember leaving his house, or getting in his car, but he tunes in and notices he’s been circling around the same two blocks and it’s getting near midnight. 

The light turns green and he slowly comes out of his daze. He takes a right blindly, pulling into the parking lot of some dive bar ringed in neon OPEN signs. It’s on the edge of the desert, leaning on that fine line between washed-up suburb and flat sand. Past the bar, there are only a few lights from cars on their way out and distant windows in shacks, last-chance gas stations, and drug dealer vacation homes. He pushes the door open.

Inside, Coasters is all Jesse could have expected – burly guys in leather jackets and greasy jeans, a few women in homemade cut-offs picking at their Walmart tank tops with someone else’s hand on their ass. There’s a pool table off to the side with a pretty lively group getting their cues, some half-finished dart games on the walls, mostly-full tables. Jesse rolls his shoulders, and feels for his wallet in his back pocket as he goes over to the bar. He’s out of place, so he separates one of the stools, drags it off to the side, and waits for the bartender to notice him. In back of his head, Mr. White is saying he can’t afford to be pulled over – Jesse’s not even sure what’s in his car right now, remembers seeing some duct-taped Ziploc bag in the glove box or under the seat, but that might be gone already. He asks for a beer, and it’s in his hand before he can remember what he has or hasn’t smoked. It’s Budweiser, not his favorite, a little sour, but he puts himself to finishing it and starts to consider actually getting plastered. There are a couple of guys in the back already pretty far gone, so the guy behind the bar probably doesn’t care too much. Jesse spends some time staring at the license plates lining the walls, thinking about the one on the Winnebago, and the one on his old souped-up Chevy creaking in the desert, next to Hector Salamanca's house. 

He asks for a whiskey.

Jesse takes one long drink hunched over the little paper coaster, glancing around the bar. One chick sends up this loud cackle, and the guys around her join in with their throaty laughs, pounding on the table. The bartender’s watching the game and wiping off the taps – past him, some biker or trucker leans into a young guy’s space, all smiles and slow nods. Jesse watches, pretty sure someone’s wallet’s going to get stolen, but the older guy just keeps smiling, nodding, waving around some money like he's deciding whether or not to buy a drink. He gets shrugged off, but he leans on the counter anyway, pressing the bill to the wood, sliding it forward. The young guy stands and pats the old guy’s shoulder, a casual "fuck off, man." The trucker – not really a trucker, something like an ex-football player or old burnout: graying hair, five o’clock shadow, rumpled flannel – doesn’t get the message, leans in again, and the young guy looks right at Jesse. His eyes are big, his smile is fixed, and there’s no retreat in his face. Jesse’s aware, suddenly, that he’s being sized up.

Jesse looks down at his glass after a few seconds, realizing he might have been staring – he was staring, a little, more than a little – and then someone takes the seat next to him with a sigh. "Jesus, some people." Jesse looks over. The young guy taps the counter and calls for three shots of Daniels.

"Aw no, I don’t –" Jesse starts.

"Relax, they’re for me." He takes the first one as soon as the bartender sets it down and hisses through his teeth. "I’m Dean."

"Jesse." 

Dean nods and knocks back the rest of his liquor. "Shit," he laughs. Jesse finds some expression in between a stare and a smile and goes back to his glass.

Dean gets a beer for a chaser, and halfway through he asks Jesse what he’s doing here. "You don’t look the type, no offense."

"Just...wanted a drink. I was driving around, ducked in –" Jesse shrugs off the rest.

"I never liked places like this. It's the same shit wherever you go. Greasy as all hell, sweaty, more leather than – I don't know, a fucking tannery." He raises his eyebrows, mutters almost to himself, "Got really good at pool, though."

"Yeah, it’s not exactly my usual hangout either," Jesse says.

"Yeah? Where’s that for you?"

It sounds casual enough, and then Jesse meets Dean’s eyes, or tries to. Dean’s looking at Jesse’s mouth, his throat, beer tipped against his lower lip.

"I got a place near the city."

"Yeah?" Dean leans in, elbow on the counter, shoulder blocking off the rest of the room. He smells like booze, cigarettes, and there’s heat coming off him in waves. Jesse sees stubble, a twitching Adam’s apple, fingers drumming the side of his beer. They both look up in the same direction at biker-trucker-linebacker still nursing his beer and his ego on the other side of the bar.

Jesse says, low, "Do you want to get out of here?"

Dean’s hand grips Jesse’s shoulder, slides down his back. "Sure." He stands. "I could use some air."

They leave some cash on the bar, the crumpled bills uncrinkling on the wood. When they get out to the parking lot, Jesse feels some of his ballsiness slip away, remembering what he has in the way of a ride. He stops right before they get to his shitty little Tercel, a shitty, burnt-out lemon next to the mud-caked Chevys and Fords. Dean is nice enough not to laugh – he spreads his fingers between Jesse’s shoulder blades gently and steers him away.

"How ‘bout we take mine?" He asks, easy and self-assured.

Dean’s car is a lot nicer, embarrassingly nicer. He holds back on his spiel until they get inside, but after a handful of red lights, the silence is long enough for him to indulge: "1967 Chevy, bought used by my dad back in the day. I’ve been fixing her up for most of my life. Been through a crashes, last one was a few years ago, but she cleans up nice –"

The way Dean talks, you'd think the two of them were easy friends, maybe brothers. He just goes on about the car – easy, natural, casual – and then he pulls off to the left. Jesse looks up from his hands when they stop, and Dean turns to him, slinging his arm across the back of Jesse’s seat. They’re in a near-dead motel parking lot. The building wraps around in a blocky 'U', doors gleaming with the light from the long, neon sign.

"Listen –" Dean’s voice is low, gravelly on the ends. "I'll get us a room here, you follow me in after a second." He tips his head to the side, bumps Jesse’s shoulder gently. "How’s that sound?"

Jesse nods slowly. "Sounds good."

"I’ll leave the door unlocked." Dean slides his hand along Jesse’s shoulder, climbs out of the car, and half-jogs over to the office. His shadow stretches out in front of him, blue-black on the cracked pavement. He comes out few minutes later, slips into Room 103. The door closes behind him.

Jesse steps out of the car, lights a cigarette, and follows.

Inside, Dean’s turned on the ugly fluorescent light at the front. There’s only the one queen bed – Jesse tamps down his surprise before it can take hold and turn into some sort of self-awareness. 

"Business first," Dean drawls. He bumps his hip against the wall to push off. "Hope you don't mind." Jesse closes the door behind him slowly and shakes his head. There are all the usual lines, just in a new package. Jesse gets two strong feelings as Dean putters around near the little nightstand: that this flirty softness isn't just for cheap motels, and that Dean's been doing this for a long while. Longer than Jesse's been paying, likely. Dean's shoulders are square, his smile is fluid, and his eyes are somewhere else. Jesse's been meeting or getting hookers for some years now, and he's still awkward about it – tripping over each step until she's out the door, when he can pull on his hoodie and leave the stinking sheets for someone else to bleach.

"Hey." Dean slings his jacket across a chair and saunters over. He takes the cigarette and kisses Jesse soft before pulling a drag himself. "How do you want it?"

Bits of sentences ricochet in Jesse's throat like marbles in a washing machine. "Regular," Jesse manages. 

Dean puts the cig in his mouth and moves his hands around Jesse’s hips. "If you were a regular, I’d give it to you ‘regular.’" Dean's thumbs hook into Jesse's belt loops. He pulls Jesse flush along his front. "How do you want it?"

"I – I dunno, I –"

He rocks back. "Do you want to fuck me?"

Jesse stares, and after a beat Dean shakes his head, smiling to himself. He puts his cigarette out on the heel of his boot, nodding. "All right then." 

This, this is where Dean kicks him out, charitably drives him back to the bar, and Jesse packs into his Toyota and fucks off. Tries forget this gut punch to his self-respect.

Then Dean says, "I have something you’ll like," and tucks the cigarette behind his ear. He kisses Jesse again, good and long this time, and pulls away too fast. He slaps off the light behind them, and the room goes blue with the dim light coming through the curtains. It takes Jesse’s eyes a moment to refocus. 

Dean leads him over to the bed, sits him down, and starts to strip. It’s not something Jesse had really thought about before, but now that there’s a – an attractive-type guy in front of him, he likes it. Dean shrugs off his button-down, pulls his t-shirt over his head. His stomach is a long tan line – taught, close. Jesse thinks suddenly he should touch it, should touch him, but Dean pushes him further onto the bed, mouth moving down his neck, hands moving over his shoulders. While Dean’s there, he pulls off Jesse’s jacket, rough tugs on the sleeves until they're over Jesse’s hands. He throws it into the dark with purpose.

"Are we good?" His voice lilts, dipping into rough bass.

Jesse nods. "Yeah." Dean’s hands are moving up and down his thighs idly. "Yeah, that’s – that’s good."

Dean presses his face into Jesse's neck, under his jaw, not kissing so much as breathing, warm and soft. It's not for long, but Jesse feels himself relax some, his hands a little looser on Dean's sides. 

"'This all right?" Dean’s hands wedge in between them, moving for Jesse’s belt in short, predictable inches.

"Yeah –" Dean takes Jesse’s belt off in one go, undoes his fly, and palms him through his boxers. Jesse closes his eyes, breathes. He tries to think of something to say – nothing comes to mind. Dean’s hand is warm, feels fine. Jesse wonders briefly if this is really what he wants or needs or some shit, and arches into Dean’s fingers to cut that short. Dean kisses his neck, nipping at him, and Jesse feels a little guilty that he’s not enjoying this as much as he probably should be.

Dean stops moving, turns Jesse’s jaw forward. Nothing else comes, so Jesse opens his eyes. As soon as they look at each other in the dark, Dean ducks in to kiss him. 

Dean's mouth is hot and open, and it seems to fit better against Jesse’s now, little prickling feelings of pleasure coming up the back of neck, up his spine. They kiss for longer than usual, longer than you’re _supposed to_ with this kind of thing, Jesse guesses, but the longer Dean’s tongue works against his, the better it starts to feel. Jesse adjusts beneath him, warming up to the weight on his thighs, the flat roughness of Dean’s palms.

He’s left, suddenly, in empty space, lips damp on nothing, and when he looks up Dean has a smile on that’s crooked in all sorts of ways, and Jesse likes that. He sits up, raises a hand to feel for Dean’s chest and the nape of his neck, and tells him, quietly, he wants to be sucked off. Dean’s eyes light a little, _here we go, finally,_ and he snakes down to Jesse’s crotch. 

"Oh," Dean says to himself, like he just remembered something. He pats his back pockets, pulls out a wallet, and finds a condom in the folds. That easiness comes back – Dean tears it open like he's popping the cap on a beer. Jesse might feel that laid-back too, the way he felt in Dean's Chevy, if his hands weren't shaking so much. 

Dean fits the condom between his lips, a translucent 'O,' and slides it down to the base of Jessie's cock smoothly. It's probably the most hustler-like thing he's done all night. Jesse leans back, his palms flat against the sheets, and lets it happen.

This is simple. He makes it simple. Jesse relaxes into the black space behind his eyes, watching stains of shapes melting together in that blackness. Something in the room's buzzing, the heater, he guesses, and he can hear himself breathing, and Dean breathing, and the sloppy noise of Dean's mouth. Jesse starts to tense up – his legs, his stomach, his jaw, his hands. He reaches out and finds Dean's head, rests his palm on the swirl of brown hair at the back.

He breathes harder, stiff, through his teeth. It starts where it always starts, spreads up through his stomach, warm pressure like something pooling under his skin until he's arching off the bed. 

And then it's over. Jesse opens his eyes to bright floaters, the blurry dark things in the room coming into focus. He blinks, and the little red light on the smoke detector blinks back at him.

In a second, he twists away, across the mattress. Dean comes back up as Jesse tosses the condom into the bedside trash can, and kisses him again. He’s definitely the handsiest hooker Jesse’s ever met – or, well, paid – feeling up under his shirt, arching his body as he mouths down to Jesse’s collarbone like he’s really enjoying this. Jesse had his time feeling like his dick was some gift to the women he picked up. Paying for tail felt a little emptier without the ego stroke of their compliments, but when he thinks about how he’d strut out of bed, smiling all self-satisfied –

This is different, though, Dean pressing against him, pulling Jesse's shirt over his head like there’s something to see under there. Maybe there’s another set of rules here, with him.

Jesse opens his eyes, just to check. All he sees is the blue smear of Dean’s cheek in the light, and he reaches a hand out between Dean’s legs.

Dean opens his mouth. His breaths come from the back of his throat, choked and harsh. Jesse can feel the air, warm and damp, on his tongue. He can taste the cigarettes, the beer, and the chemical tang of latex. Dean's back arches, pushing his hips into Jesse's palm, and his hands come up to press against Jesse's chest and ribs. Dean's weight is too much to support, and every bone in Jesse's body feels like it's been lined with lead, so he rolls Dean over until he's face up on the mattress. Dean's eyes fly open, his breath cuts short. He smiles through his surprise, waiting. 

Jesse unzips his jeans, closes his fingers around Dean's cock, and works his wrist slowly. It's all so familiar. He goes by muscle memory, his hand knowing how touch and stroke and tease. Jesse keeps his eyes on Dean's face, the twitches of pleasure, the red and shiny lips parting and closing. He's never seen a man look like this – vulnerable, needy, readily submissive. Dean's eyes with their long and curling lashes close sleepily, like he's drunker than he is. He moans tentatively like he's forgotten how speak. Jesse's vaguely aware of his dick hardening again in his jeans, but all his focus is on Dean, Dean mumbling quietly, Dean moving beneath him, Dean looking right at him. Blood is pounding in Jesse's ears, his face is burning, and his palm feels every smeary line of precome leaking over the both of them. When Dean comes, Jesse feels it too – a sudden release, an exhale he didn't know he'd been holding. Dean's eyes shut, and when they open again, he looks away and gets off the bed. He starts walking off, probably to get his shirt lying on the floor, but Jesse tells him to stop. Dean turns, walks back, and Jesse pulls him closer by his belt loops. 

They don't speak, they barely look at each other as Jesse finally smooths his hand along the ridge of muscle on Dean's stomach, down the fine hairs, and licks a rippling white scar just above Dean's navel. He keeps kissing across Dean's abdomen, and then down, his fingers pulling down the jeans and boxer shorts, and he's just about to fit his mouth around Dean's naked cock when two warm hands press against his jaw and pull him away.

"Hey now," Dean says shakily. "That's extra." Somehow that's not an invitation. The lilt of Dean's voice says that this is ending now, that Jesse should put his shirt back on and light another cigarette.

Jesse realizes his mistake and nods blearily as Dean buttons up and zips his fly. "Sorry." 

"Don't worry about it." Dean shakes his head, finally grabbing his clothes from where he dropped them. "I had a good time. Really."

"Do you want to –" It's halfway out before he stop himself. Jesse chokes on the words, but gets out, "You want to smoke, or something?" There are a couple joints double-bagged under the passenger seat in the Tercel, and that'd really hit the spot right now. They could go driving – there's miles and miles of desert, empty and blue. The look of smoke pouring out of Dean's lips is still fresh, still lurid.

When Dean turns around, still tucking his shirt into his pants, he smiles. It stops at his eyes, but there's something genuine in the warm way he looks at Jesse and laughs his apology. 

"You don't even know how good that sounds," he says. "I gotta go, though. Got somebody I don't want to keep waiting."

Jesse mumbles a guess: "Your boyfriend?"

"No, no..." Dean laughs brittly. "My brother." 

"Oh."

Dean's face shuts like a car hood. He's serious when he leans forward. "My brother doesn't do this."

"Yeah, sure," Jesse says lamely. It hadn't really occurred to him, but Dean seems hell-bent on getting his own weird story straight. Jesse clears his throat, but when he speaks it still comes out raspy, uncertain. "Sure, is he – like – sick or something?"

"It's complicated. Let's say he's a recovering addict." Dean winces. "Used to be. Something like that, at least." He taps his head before making a broader gesture with his hand, motioning up and down his body. "He's not all there."

In the back of Jesse's memory, an ATM thuds. "Yeah, that'll happen, man."

Dean turns away to check his phone. Something's changed in him. That openness – faked openness, but still an attempt – is gone. Dean's shoulders are hunched, and the harsh curve of his back is like a wall between them. Jesse stares at the little blue slivers of light on Dean's collar and jaw.

"I don't usually do this either. Not anymore."

Nothing else comes, so Jesse tries to nod understandingly, like he gets a single thing about Dean's life.

"I used to, when I was younger. Whenever I was short on cash – which happened a lot, my dad being a piece of shit and all. But I just need some gas money." 

Dean's dressed, back in his shirt and jacket. "I'll give you a ride back to the bar, so –" He looks Jesse up and down, for the last time. "Y'know – get your stuff."

Jesse nods again, just to show he heard, but he takes a moment before he stands up and starts to get his shit together. Dean tosses over Jesse's jacket, trying to hurry things along.

He doesn't want to leave. He looks at Dean looking at the door, and he knows past that is the parking lot, Coasters, and the black, barren night. Just flickering Waffle House signs and his Tercel, and then his dead, dull house. It's not even two yet. Dean's not what Jesse'd usually look for on a night like this, but he comes off as nice, uncomplicated, and a little invincible. Jesse likes that, needs that. Still, he can't bring himself to try getting Dean to hang around again. Much as Jesse wants another few hours with Dean, getting brushed off again would be too humiliating. He feels pathetic and desperate, but at least he can end things without let all that show.

Dean pushes the door open as Jesse walks over. "Come on," he says, trying at a joke, "this place is a real pile." But somewhere along the way Dean's aloofness rubbed off, like cheap paint. Now he seems more like a collection of one-liners and a nice face. Jesse still can't complain – it's better company than he's had in a while. As Dean cruises along, Jesse hopes for another loop around the block, anything.

"So what do you?"

Dean looks over. "What do I do?" The car rolls over the cool asphalt, shifting lanes likes it's swimming through black water, surreally smooth. 

"Yeah," Jesse says. "Yeah, you said you don't do this, so what do you do?"

Dean smiles to himself. "I hunt."

"Like, deers?"

"And other stuff." Dean shifts gears. The engine hums a little louder. They pass the turn into Coasters lot, but Dean doesn't seem to notice. Jesse watches the bar disappear in the side mirror, the squat building getting more and more warped as they drive away. "I'll tell you, you don't want to take a look in my trunk. Don't have papers for a single piece in there."

Jesse forces a short little laugh, and Dean laughs along with him. Then he slaps Jesse's leg gently with the back of his hand, just to get his attention. "Hey, what do you listen to? What kind of music do you like?"

"Uh –" Jesse looks over for a second, checking Dean's face to see where this is coming from, but his eyes are looking out over the road. Half of one of his smiles is lingering on his face, like he's forgotten to let it drop. Jesse answers, slowly, "Just…rap, punk, and dubstep, sometimes."

"What the fuck is dubstep?" Which is more or less what Jesse expected to hear. Dean points over to the glove box. "Get some Black Sabbath – _Heaven and Hell_."

That's a surprise. In Dean's car, there's a cardboard carton of cassette tapes in the glove box. Jesse turns one of them – Creedence Clearwater Revival – over in his hands. "Man, I don't think I've seen one of these since I was in, like, high school."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean screeches through a yellow-red light. "Just put it on."

Jesse does, and Dean reaches over to skip through the tape until he finds some certain song. He leans back in the driver's seat and taps his hands on the wheel to the punchy rhythm of the drums. They coast along through some dead end town. There are duplexes with dingy vinyl and chipping paint, gray lawns, streetlights making pools of light like nicotine stains on the road. They stop talking, and Jesse's all right with that. He leans back too, settling into the leather seat, bracing his hand against the rubber of the open window.

It's a warm night, quiet, no breeze. Three or fours cars pass them on the road coming the other way, their headlights flooding the cabin for a few seconds before it drops back into the semi-dark of the dim neighborhood. Dean flips the tape.

Jesse reaches into his pocket for his cigs, and as he's tapping one out, Dean pulls off to the side of the road. He throws on the parking brake and climbs out, looking expectantly at Jesse as he walks over to the sidewalk. On the right there's a fenced-in lot with a battered for-sale sign jammed into the gravel. Opposite them, on the other side of the road, there's a gray concrete wall bordered by fading creosote. And behind the wall is a house, barely visible. Its roof and the beam from its garage light barely crest the topmost concrete block.

"Something wrong?"

Dean shrugs. "There's just no smoking in my car."

Jesse glances back at the Chevy. "Sure, man." He pulls out his lighter. "So you want one, or something?"

Dean nods and walks into Jesse's space, stopping when there's a few inches between them. Jesse watches him, watches Dean's face, careful but on board all the same. There's something about Dean that makes Jesse want to push boundaries he didn't know he had.

There's the scrape of Dean's shoes on the sidewalk, the hum of car tires on the highway. Dean takes a cigarette from the box, fits it in between his lips, and presses the unlit end to the embers of Jesse's. Dean closes his eyes, breathes in through the cigarette, and after a dense, asphyxiated moment, steps away. 

Jesse staggers back. His face feels hot. His whole body, down to his nailbeds, feels hot. "What the fuck was that?"

Dean looks over, grinning. Smoke pours out of his mouth, floating up to the moths battering against the yellow underside of a streetlight. "What?" 

"That –" Jesse glances around. "We're in fucking public, man."

"Is this what passes for 'public' in New Mexico?" The distant whine of traffic audible in the quiet is answer enough. They are alone, in the dark. Dean laughs. "Turn up the music a little."

Jesse does. Guitar and keyboard synth bleed back into the air. Dean goes over to lean on the lot's chain link fence, resting his elbows on the top bar. Even here, Dean puts up a good front. It's the way he stands, the way he smokes, the way he squints at the lights in the distance. He seems out of place, a little unreal.

Looking at him like this, all Jesse wants to do is get Dean back to Albuquerque proper, back to his house. Somewhere private, close, where he can light a joint, where Dean'll pull off his shirt again with that hungry look on his face. The words well up in Jesse's throat. 

He pushes off the side of the car before they can surface, throws down his cigarette.

"I've got some beers in the backseat," Dean says, speaking towards the lot.

Jesse coughs. "I think I'm actually –" Dean turns to face him " – actually gonna head." He jerks his thumb at the street.

"Sure," Dean says after a second. He takes another moment to adjust to the change in mood, scratches his chin. "Yeah, I'll drive you back."

"Nah, I think I'll just walk." Jesse shoves his hands in his pockets, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears. "I should sober up a little, and it's not far."

Dean's eyes catch the lie, but he just dips his head like he understands completely, believes entirely. "This was fun," he says, light and friendly, like they all they did was drive around the block listening to classic rock, like his come hadn't dried on Jesse's wrist a half hour ago.

Jesse throws up a hand in a weak wave. "Yeah, man."

Dean smiles grimly from behind a gray cloud of smoke. He turns back around, and Jesse takes a few retreating steps staring at the dark plane of his back before heading off the way they came.

It's a real nice night, and the sound of whirring cicadas and far-off traffic keeps Jesse's mind muted as he follows the road to Coasters. Walking, smoking keep his hands occupied. He can't focus on anything, so he looks at the weedy sidewalk and the houses with their shiny black or glowing orange windows. Little realizations come and go, like the fact that he liked this, he liked Dean, he might even want to do this again.

He knows what returning home means: his thoughts collapsing on top of him, the needling pain of remembering turning sharp and unavoidable, the relief of letting it all in – guilt and fear and sickening awareness of what's not there. No voice, no steady hands to pull Jesse out of the past, back from Jane's duplex and Gale's apartment. Still, Jesse finishes off his cigarette – it bounces on the sidewalk, spraying ash at his feet – and picks up the pace. Behind him, he hears a motor revving, and the cough of a muffler, and the screech of tires peeling off towards the highway.


End file.
